So, Louquo, having nothing else to do, decides to assist his only companion. He pulls off some dead twigs and drops them on the ground. Before his eyes, they become people and four-legged animals. He tosses some leaves, and as they flutter away, they grow wings, and become the birds. Unlike the silk-cotton tree of today, this tree has many kinds of fruit. And after eating a few tasty morsels, Louquo throws the rest into the sea, and the fishes swim away.
    Now, seeing how lonely Louquo is, the great Mother Tree did not wish the same for her new children so she gave each of them a spirit, an opoyem. And to the two-legged twigs, who become The People, she also gave a companion spirit, called the chemin.
    Now, if you treat your chemin with respect, then you are rewarded with good luck. You become kakaburokwa, one who is brave and upright, and when you die, your chemin will float in the air above your ajoupa and keep you company for all time.
    But if you are a drunkard or neglectful, you became makoburokwa, one who forgets. These poor souls, the chemin abandon upon death, and the opoyem must wander in a desolate place, lonely as Louquo.

The Santa Ana River

    Perhaps it happened like this.
    The old man is crossing the street. He is drawn toward a face in a window. Drawn by a familiar face out of his long-buried past. So unexpected to see him now. He had thought long ago, when the event was new, and word of the man’s miraculous escape was all the subject of headlines and sermons, homilies of the day —he’d thought, he’d expected, to run across him. And after the miracle man of St. Pierre became a popular attraction of the Greatest Show on Earth, Joseph Paul had played with the idea of going to see him. Not to see the spectacle, but to go back of the stage and say to him something, something that would balance things between them. Even though he knew there was no balancing what had happened. Because most of what was between them didn’t even really belong to them.
    The old man can avoid the car that has turned the corner a block away and is driving too fast, swerving a little. But he cannot believe that after all this time anything could possibly prevent him from reaching the face he knows so well, impassive behind the glass, watching him cross the street in the golden light of early evening.
    It is at the last moment that he knows, that he becomes aware of the automobile, that he turns and sees dark faces through the windshield. Still he might jump back, save himself. But he looks back to the café window only a few feet away and he says in creole “Cyparis, my friend.”
    It may be his soul leaping toward the café window that speaks. It is possible that he is dead before the words he did not know he is going to say are there in his throat. Maybe he dies with them in his throat.
    The other man, the man behind the window, considers the scene in front of him. The car careening to miss the old man doesn’t miss him, comes to a stop on the sidewalk. People are cursing, screaming, trying to pull the drunken black men from the car.

    You know, my friend, the day you died, I was sitting at that sidewalk café across the street. I saw you there, and I thought, My God, Can that be Joseph Paul, the Priest? And the recognition was in your eyes, so I knew it was you, a ghost of my youth, come to me at the end of my life to bring back old memories. And then, I saw that car, weaving down that street, much too fast. You were so intent on crossing the street to see your old comrade, eh, Paul?
    Yes, said Paul, I, too saw the car, but my only thought was to cross the street, to shake your familiar black hand and reminisce about our glory days in St. Pierre. Ah, well, my friend, c’est la vie.
    Priest, you always trusted too much.
Yes, perhaps you are right, Auguste. But, then, if I didn’t, I would not be who I am, and I would never have met you, yes?
Well, that might not have been such a bad thing. Cyparis smiles.
    So, it was a sidewalk café, you say? I could have sworn I saw your face through the glass, on the other side of the window.
Our memory plays tricks on us, Priest. Who knows this better than I?
    Joseph Paul wants to protest, but hesitates. Ah, my friend, does it matter, one side of the glass or the other?

    Or Perhaps it happened like this.
    The old man is sitting at that sidewalk café on Western Avenue in Los Angeles. He sees the man on the other side of the street. There is something familiar about this man, about that long, gaunt face. Could it possibly be The Priest, his old friend from St. Pierre? He waves. His voice is old and weak, but he attempts to shout out, Joseph Paul, it is I, Auguste. There is a flash of recognition on the other’s face as he steps out into the crosswalk.
    That’s when Cyparis sees the car, weaving much too fast up the residential street. Go back, he wants to say. But he doesn’t say it. He just watches as the car swerves around the corner, striking his friend. He hears the terrible thump as the body is struck, flying through the air to land on the pavement, not five yards away. He sees the blood seeping from the corner of Paul’s mouth, the recognition slipping away. He hears the chemin leave the old man’s body, crying, Cyparis, you are responsible for this!

    Which side of the glass, you say, Priest? Cyparis shakes his head in dismay. Will you white people never understand?
    Understand? What is to understand, Auguste?
    Understand that yes, it matters. It is everything, which side of the glass you are on.
    Paul is taken aback. I am sorry if I have offended you, Auguste. I didn’t realize you harbor such feelings.
    I am a black man, am I not? Even in death, I am a black man.

    Cyparis lights his pipe, takes several short puffs, allowing the smoke to escape through his nose in great billowing clouds. He looks at Joseph Paul, but says nothing, takes a long drag on the pipe, exhales slowly. Well, my friend, he says at last, Don’t you think that it is time to get on with this business?
    Business? What business would that be, Auguste?
    I, for one, Priest, have stories to tell.
    And I, Auguste? What is my business?
    Your job, Priest, is the same as mine. To redeem yourself.
    Ah, yes, redemption. So you think, perhaps, that this place is Purgatory?
    We have both been in Purgatory since the world ended beneath that mountain in the Caribbean, yes? And what have we done with our lives since that terrible Ascension Day, my friend? I have walked this earth like a zombi. All I remembered was Pelée. Pelée, the one thing I most wanted to forget. Now it is time for me to remember the world again. And you, Priest? Was Mt. Pelée god’s attempt to punish you for forgetting him? The death of your family? The horrible death of your child years later? You have bestowed yourself with an unhappy life. An unhappy marriage. You have no need of god. You have punished yourself very adequately, Monsieur Poncy.
    So what now, mon ami? How do I redeem myself? By listening to you tell stories without end? God, have mercy!
    Perhaps, that is just what you need. Who am I to say? I am afraid, friend, you must find that out for yourself. It is not to you I need to tell my stories. These stories are for the living.